


The Way We Talk

by ballpoint



Category: Marvel 616, marvel (civil war)
Genre: AU, Angst, Gen, Marvel 616 (Freeform)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:00:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/ballpoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Per recipient’s instructions this is a slight AU (Steve Rogers is alive) not so long after Civil War, tension still there, and Tony adjusting to being destitute. No easy fixes either. Oh, and I’m not American, so I don’t know the timeline of repeals- so go with comic book logic, okay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way We Talk

**Author's Note:**

> References: Iron Man:Civil War, The Road to Civil War, Extremis, Civil War What If, TV Tropes, Wikipedia. A big shoutout to empty_splendor for giving me her Stark pov, and tsukinofaerii who did the graphics and a second round of betaing. The story would be a lot poorer without you both.
> 
> Characters and their respective trademarks belong to Marvel and Walt Disney; no copyright infringement intended.
> 
> Written for nechromatize for the cap_im exchange for Christmas Day, 2011.

“I planned for all eventualities. Of all the scenarios that I calculated, and all the angles I worked- I never expected this. You don’t go into a battle preparing to lose, or else what’s the point of fighting, right? I’m a futurist, I can intuit the future. Or at least, trump the odds, I-”

Tony stared at his hands, flexed his fingers closed and open. He couldn’t move his wrists, as they were chained to the table, his ankles padlocked to the chair. Clearing his throat, he tried again, not so much a confession as a plea for trying to understand where the variables betrayed him, went horribly wrong.

Instead of a priest, there were the shadowy figures of the SHIELD agents, bodies in varying stages of high alertness. The interrogation room of the Helicarrier far too big and cluttered with bodies and weapons to be the intimate confines of the confession booth, but Tony pushed forward.

“The only reason why I put myself out there, was so that we wouldn’t be crushed. Registration- after Stamford, it was going to happen, I just tried to prevent it from getting out of hand.”

“But you lost, Stark.” Maria Hill pointed out the obvious; as she loaded the cartridge in the oddly squat barrelled gun, locked it in place with the heel of her hand.Tony closed his eyes, knowing what came next, and powerless to stop it. In the darkness behind his lids, he heard the _click_ of steps as Commander Hill moved, her voice now behind him, her hand coming to rest gently on his shoulder. “You fought the good fight, Stark but dems the breaks.”

“Commander Hill-”

“Captain Rogers is on his way to speak to the President now.”

“And me?” Tony asked, in the hollow tones of someone in shock. He just -- _still_ couldn’t believe it. How had he lost the battle? They had antimatter prisons, the law on their side, plans for a Fifty State Initiative. How had it gone so _wrong_? Just the light tap of Maria’s boots on the floor answered his question, the mouth of the barrel an ‘O’ of a cold kiss against his nape.

Reed’s calculations were correct, the variables -0111001101101111011101010110111001100100001011100010000001010100011010000110010101110010011001010010011101110011001000000111001101110100011010010110110001101100001000000110000100100000011101110110000101111001001000000111010001101111001000000111001101100001011101100110010100100000011101010111001100101100001000000111010001101111

Pulses of pain, sharp hooks ripped through his synapses, shredding neurological technology and shorting out circuits. Tony’s eyes flew open, before they rolled back into his head, and--

Silence coiled in the room, the tension palpable as Tony’s shoulders twitched, the agents’ fingers drifting towards their assorted weapons.

After a minute, Maria pressed her fingers against the shield logo on her breast, and spoke: “Tony Stark is down. How long before he comes to, Dr Richards?”

“Around twenty four hours,” Reed Richards voice came over the line, “it will take that long to neutralise the Extremis. He’ll feel a bit punch drunk when he comes to, but apart from that, none the worse for wear.“

“And his physical condition? The last thing we need is a lawsuit from Stark, here.”

“He will have the strength and conditioning for a man of his age. He’ll be healthy,” Reed Richards said, almost distracted. “Just - as I said- the layman’s term would be punch drunk.”

“That will be the least of his worries, the poor bastard. He might start drinking again before the year’s up.”

[   
](http://s10.photobucket.com/albums/a116/jazzypom/?action=view&current=1st.jpg)

 

[   
](http://s10.photobucket.com/albums/a116/jazzypom/?action=view&current=2nd.jpg)

***

“I heard Stark’s broke,” Sam had said, and there was no relish in his voice, just that plain speaking that Steve always admired Sam for.

“Yes,” Steve confirmed, as he poked at his noodles with chopsticks. “Stark Tower is in foreclosure, and the word is on the street that Tony couldn’t even get arrested.”

They were seated on the roof of an apartment building downtown, the air alive with the babble of various languages, and a mix of food - savoury fried onions as they danced on a heated hob, in the kitchens below, with the sizzle of chicken as it seared to golden perfection in garlic scented oil. Sam said nothing for a moment as he sipped at his miso. It was nightfall, a couple days after what the papers dubbed as ‘Civil War’ had ended, with Tony giving up- and them keeping the peace.

“Good. The SHRA was _bullshit_. You know it, I know it. Although the government claiming Tony mislead them- that’s bullshit, too. You could fertilise the entire state of Iowa with what those guys are shovellin’”

“At least people are coming around. It will be noted in the books, we’ll move on, never making a mistake like this again.”

“There’ll be other prejudices, it is what it is.” Sam rolled his shoulders, before taking a deep sip from his Styrofoam cup. “But that isn’t what’s bothering you, Steve.”

Steve knew he shouldn’t have been surprised at Sam’s intuition, because Sam knew him just as well as Tony did. But he thought he’d been doing an adequate job of hiding his worry. “If the news is to be believed, Tony had to file for bankruptcy the other day. They’ve taken his properties, and according to Pepper, he has nowhere to stay.”

“Can’t he stay with her-” Sam drew up short, and went, “oh.”

“No, and the other Avengers aren’t open to having Tony staying with them.”

“ _Golly_ ,” Sam drawled, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “I wonder why.”

“I’m thinking, that he could stay with me. Not for long, just until he’s back on his feet again..”

“And _I’m_ thinking, you must be out of your goddamned mind, Steve. Do you remember all that shit Tony did? Do I have to make a list of why this is a bad, bad idea?”

“I know it’s a bad idea,” Steve admitted. “I know that when I look at him, when I think how Bill Foster was killed by his hand, when I think of how he cloned Thor- I wonder if I ever knew Tony Stark at all.”

The admission fell from his lips, sat between him and Sam like the heavy, awkward thing that it was, and Sam was enough of a friend to accept it, and ask the question that Steve had shied away from.

“So, if you know it’s a bad idea, just _why_?”

“I don’t know.”

***

Taking a deep breath, Tony raised his hand, curled his fingers into a loose fist and rapped at the door, half hoping that it wouldn’t budge, half knowing it would. He’d been buzzed in from downstairs, but fortunes and battles could be changed on a pin, never mind the five minutes it took to get from ground floor to here.

He didn’t get the time to do a second knock, before the door swung open, and Steve stood there, shoulders filling the door, fingers curled around the door knob, the line of his mouth almost as grim as Tony’s own.

For a moment, they didn’t say anything, but the news on the television set in Steve’s living room eagerly spun out Tony’s past misdeeds, filling up the silence between them. _“Tonight on 20/20, an exclusive look on the goings on inside ‘Project 42’ as told to us by a Robbie Baldwin, a former inmate - “_

“It’s okay, Steve,” Tony took a step back, trying to put on a smirk, hoping to save face before Steve withdrew the offer. “I’m fine, there’s somewhere else I can go-”

“Where else?” Steve challenged, and Tony opened his mouth, before Pepper’s face flashed across his mind, her eyes filled with tears as she pulled the edges of her robe together with a fist, the trembling silence already steeling Tony for the answer he was doomed to receive.

 _No,_ she’d wailed, her fingers trembling across her mouth, her features twisted with grief and eyes tear swollen. _No, I can’t do that. I can’t take you in- not after Happy- not after everything. I can’t_ , Pepper shook her head. _You can’t ask me to, I don’t hate you...no. But..if you stay here, I will. I will. Don’t make me hate you, please._

Where indeed? Rhodey’d gone wheels up, and was nowhere to be found. He had Rhodey’s mom’s address, but she still hadn’t forgiven him for the drunken stunt he pulled on her in Philly all those years ago, when she was doing Rhodey a favour of giving Tony a place to stay and dry out -only for him to run off.

Steve stepped aside,Tony hitched his bag on his shoulder, wiped his feet on the mat, and came in.

oOo

They sat across from each other, the table between them, bodies tense, expectant; like actors waiting on the lights of the stage moving from darkness to gas bright, for the audience murmurs and coughs to be quiet. A nervous energy surged through him, an odd expectation as if steeling himself for a fight. Steve, as a necessary truce had turned off the TV, cutting off the gleeful litany of Tony’s wrongs.

“I guess I’ll be your house guest for the next while.” Tony broke the silence with deft understatement. It had been three weeks since they last saw each other, Tony at his feet, Steve’s shield in hand. Tony had goaded him then, his lips cracked, his teeth red from the blood that pooled in his mouth. Back then, Tony had wanted him to finish things- “There’s nowhere else for you to go,” Steve explained simply, cutting that thought off. “Between the mob mentality and the press, you’d be torn apart.”

“And you decided to take me in, like some stray.”

“I did it because you did the same for me, a long time ago.”

“Of course, Steve Rogers always pays his debts, right?”

“Only you’d think-” Steve cut himself off, held up a hand as if to signal a truce. Tony always knew which buttons to push, where to needle with the least amount of effort, and Steve wondered if Sam was right; if by hosting Tony here, if he had forsaken all common sense. For the first time in what seemed like forever- past the _Civil War_ (Steve hated the term, _hated_ it, but that never stopped _The Daily Bugle_ from coining hyperbole, and edging towards yellow journalism)- he wondered if he’d made the right choice, offering Tony lodging.

For brief moments Steve entertained a vicious bubble of pleasure at how _tired_ Tony looked. Still old fashioned movie star handsome, sure, but instead of being highly restored like those movies on _Turner Classics_ , Tony seemed faded at the edges, like a picture that had been left in the sun for too long. Glints of silver hinted in his hair, the style a bit shaggy, the ends long and hinting of curl he normally kept away with expensive salon cuts, the laugh lines around his eyes, deeper, and more pronounced. The smudges under his eyes that told of a bone deep exhaustion. His facial hair - the precise lines of the van dyke now fading into a two day scruff around his cheeks and chin. His clothing - the shirt _looked_ like it had seen better days, the collar drooping at the edges, the armpits hinting of sweat and soil.

Tony, being Tony, stared right back, his brow furrowed, his mouth in grim lines that echoed Steve’s own. Good, Steve thought, it was better this way, Tony not being cowed, or showing some gratitude. It was better this way, it had to be.

“House rules,” Steve pushed ahead. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to, but no longer. There’s no Jarvis, so you’re going to have to clean up after yourself. I’m going to need you to stay out of our way as we try and get the SHRA overturned. I don’t know if your views have evolved-”

“ _Evolved_? Just because I tried to garner a compromise when all you wanted to do was blindly fight-”

“Blindly fight? No, not at all.”

“Right, because -”

“We’re not going down that path again. That subject is off limits here.”

A sardonic curl of Tony’s mouth turned up at that comment. “I thought we lived in a democracy, Steve.”

“My house isn’t a democracy, Tony.” Steve snapped, sighed at himself, but continued, because he had things to say. “No drink, and if you want women-”

At this, Tony rolled his eyes, like a wayward frat boy objecting to house rules put forth by his pledge master, but before Steve could comment on _that_ , Tony waved the comment away, with a flick of his wrist, with the particular attitude of one who still had the trappings of wealth. “It’s been a rough year with a lot of things, Steve. I don’t think you have to worry about wine- or women. But, if that particular bit of action picks up, it won’t be here.”

“As for food- you’re welcome to help yourself, you don’t have to ask me for that, just leave a note on the fridge to say if we’re out of anything, and I’ll pick it up when I can.”

“Wait, that’s it? What about, “No lights on after ten pm?” Or ‘keep the music down?’”

Steve ignored _that_ , as he stood up, stuck his hand into the pockets of his cargos, withdrew an object and placed it on the table, in the space between Tony’s hands.

“Here. I’m going to be busy for the past few days, and it won’t be fair to have you waiting around for me. Also, if you accept this key, it means that you can’t go around being Iron Man anymore.”

Tony reacted like Steve thought he would have. His eyes opening to almost comical proportions, his mouth slack jawed as if Steve had socked him good and hard in the solar plexus.

“ _Steve_.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve did not want to stay around for Tony to object, for them to be sucked into this argument again. “It’s a condition of your terms - you can work, you can tinker, but you can’t be Iron Man, not right now. I can understand if you can’t accept it, and no hard feelings if you decide to leave.”

* * *

“This is a Bulgari, with platinum casing and an alligator strap. C’mon, even with the whole ‘jewellery drops by a third when I walk out of the shop’ rule, there’s no way that it’s only worth one hundred and fifty.”

“You don’t have the original papers, buddy, for all I know, it’s a knock off. Nice work if it is, but still.”

“Seriously? It’s worth three grand, easy.” Tony started to explain, “Look at the detailing, the platinum buckle, the original typography, no misspellings, no contaminants under the dial. No glue-”

The pawn broker didn’t even look mildly impressed, but Tony dug his heels in, ignoring the other people milling around him, only focusing on the guy in front of him. The shop was small, cramped and stuffy. The shelves illuminated with various articles - ranging from the latest phones to mini computers. He eyed the jewellery here, picking up on the odd Tag Heuer and Rolex watches, not many, but what the guy had was quality. The pawnbroker could afford to give it up, if that heavy gold Cartier ring on the guy’s pinky was anything to go by. Tony needed money, stat, and there was no way he was walking out with only one hundred and fifty.

Three hours later, he was - well, not _home_ but at Steve’s. It had been a week since Steve gave his little ultimatum. The bastard didn’t even look in his direction when he said the word, just placed his key, gave that passive aggressive _bullshit_ excuse of how he’d understand if Tony couldn’t stay, _as if he had anywhere else to go_. He didn’t have anywhere else to go. Jan, had been a no go, as much as they knew each other, and once upon a time, travelled in the same social class.

 _“Thanks for agreeing to see me here.”_

 _“You’re busy,” Tony shrugged. “You have a lot on your plate. I know what that’s like, or-” he broke off laughing, “I _knew_ what that was like.”_

Awkwardly, they’d picked around the SHRA, and what the other disassembled avengers were doing.

“I heard about your extremis, or lack thereof,” Jan said, waving away the attendant waitstaff so that she and Tony could be alone, in the conservatory. Of course, that was a modest name for this room- built so cunningly, it seemed that the gardens were a part of the room, instead of being held at bay outside with glass doors; the air lush and moist with varying flora of colour and texture.

“Yeah, tell Hank and Reed, no hard feelings, right? I’d tell them myself... if they took my calls.”

Jan sighed, before sipping delicately from her wine glass. Tony decided to stick to soda water and lime. “I’m sorry, it’s just-”

“It’s a war, we lost, Jan. I get that. It’s fine,” he smiled, and he hadn’t lost his touch, because Jan smiled back, a bit on the shy side, but herself and Hank avoided the stigma of being on the losing side, unlike himself.

Being a good host, Jan changed the subject.

“Carol seems to have dropped off the face of the earth, after Wanda-”

“And you?”

“I just got some investors to take my line forward,” Jan answered, reaching for a helping from the cheese tray. “I’m thinking of moving the van Dyne name more as a Lifestyle Brand, and it’s been so busy. I’m at odds and ends, and hoping that nothing jinxes this, you know what I mean?”

Swallowing, Tony knew what Jan meant. She and Hank were _good_ and with a new line to launch, she didn’t need any smears around it, like it or not, Tony was a smear. There was no way he could ask her for money, or help. Not now.

“I know what you mean,” Tony smiled, because he could do that. Put on a brave face when the world was falling around him, like that time, when Steve had deserted him, when the Illuminati wanted no part of his plan re: support for the SHRA. Tony had lost the war, but he loved Jan - still _owed_ Jan for the fuck up he’d been all those years ago, when he seduced her, knowing she was in a bad place.

So he did the only thing he could do, and smiled. “Congratulations, if nothing else, after being an Avenger, a CEO might just be a walk in the park.”

“Well,” Jan smiled, the relief of Tony not asking for help chasing the shadows from her eyes. “If you did it...it’s not that hard, right?”

 

oOo

[   
](http://s10.photobucket.com/albums/a116/jazzypom/?action=view&current=3rd.jpg)

With a sigh, Tony slid the mac book from its case.

That purchase had been a sizable chunk of money gotten from the sale of his watch (more than one hundred and fifty, thank you very much), as well as a spiral note book, pencils, pens, and an assortment of things from Radio Shack and other stores. Screw drivers, soldering irons, bales of wire- just as how Steve had sketch books and pencils devoted to his craft, Tony had his tools too.

After the _ease_ of the extremis, where ideas sparked, arcing applications and benfits and potential shortcomings in _four dimensions_ , it baffled Tony, going back to this sort of tinkering, complete with pencil and graph paper. It was as if he were hobbling around in the dark, having yet to discover fire. Or, if one wanted to carry that metaphor forward, he’d discovered fire, but now sentenced to eternal torment because he tried to give it to mankind.

Poverty had a way of making his outlook melodramatic.

After that little shopping spree, he was almost back to square one, finances wise.

After that little run in with Steve, it seemed that he couldn’t _be_ Iron Man anymore, but he could still tinker. A small consolation, but tinker Tony did, with stylus and tablet in addition to his computer, as he made plans. Perhaps, Tony, old boy, he thought to himself, this might be the time to explore the idea of geo-spatial visualisation location aware data- like what he had in his suit, but shrunk down to something more manageable, like a mobile phone, or... yeah

Tony did not look up from his sketches, not even when Steve opened the door and muttered, “Good evening.”

“Steve,” Tony nodded, as he scribbled an equation in the margins of the quadrilled pages along this book.

“Nice to see that you’ve abandoned the house rules,” Steve’s tones were even as he picked his way around various boxes and packages in the living room, before hoping over into the kitchen.

“I was just tinkering, I can’t be Iron Man, but I can still be Tony Stark, right? As Tony, when I’m not being the CEO of my own company - which I’m not, at the moment, by the way- I tinker.” Tony tapped the edge of his book with the end of his pencil.

“You have a room,” Steve said, and Christ, that _hurt_ , the fact that Steve could be so cold. “You can keep your things there, out of the communal rooms. Like I said, we don’t have Jarvis, not any more.”

Tony put down his pen and clenching his hands into fists, he dropped them to his thighs. “You’re so full of it, Steve.”

“Because I like a clean house?”

“Yeah, that.” Tony pushed himself up, and surveyed the rooms. Steve’s apartment was open plan; no borders between the living room and the dining area, with the kitchen just a nook all tucked in. The loft was big, more to do with its sparseness, and lack of furniture. His clutter made the place look smaller, and cramped. The hardwood floor disappeared under the sea tissue paper, half assembled boxes and bags. With a scowl at their surroundings, Steve dragged his cowl from his head, and ran splayed fingers through his hair, as he stalked towards the bathroom to take a shower.

Tony dragged his hands over his face and tugged at his hair. Yeah, because all of these _issues_ between them could be sorted out by having a clean house. As soon as the white noise of the shower hit the titles, Tony swore long and hard.

 **Part Two**

“You know the bad thing about not having Tony Stark as a sponsor?”

Steve didn’t even look up from the document that he was typing, as Sam moved around. “The fact that we don’t have the Avengers mansion anymore. I heard from Peter the Stark Tower was nice.”

Steve kept on typing, and intrigued, Sam came up behind him, only to see a brief inkling of what was on the screen before Steve minimised it with a click of the button. Well, some things had rubbed off on him from Tony Stark, Sam thought.

“You have something to say, Sam?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, as he rested his hip against the edge of the table that made up their office in the bunker. SHIELD offered them the facility underground, and although it was _okay_ , with lamps and electricity and air pumped from above, it wasn’t the Avenger’s mansion. “I think I do.”

“Oh, indeed.” Steve answered, and although his tones were calm, almost friendly, Sam felt the tension threaded through the words. Wings tucked into their protective sheath, he had room to get around, but he stayed where he was, hip on his desk, his arms folded across his chest. Thought for a while, as he studied the set of Steve’s shoulders. His cowl was down, his hair a dull gold in the lights they had down here.

 

Steve swivelled his chair, turning away from the computer to face Sam, his hands rested on the armrests of the chair.

Sam, shaking his head, continued, “I _wish_ I didn’t have to say this but... you two should talk. When I’ve been called in to settle disputes, we’d get a ball, and the person who had it had to speak, the others would listen- as long as the person had the ball. You get what I’m saying, right?”

Steve turned to him and gave him a long, blank look. Almost similar to the one that Tony could do, but Tony had the quirked eyebrow for that extra asshole charm.

“Sam, as much as I appreciate your input, Tony and I-” Steve raised his hand, before giving a vague gesture which showed how all this tension was getting to Steve, because he didn’t do _vague_. “We don’t have anything to say to each other right now.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sam laughed, amusement absent from his tone. “Sure.”

Steve quirked the corner of his lip, as he lifted his gaze to Sam’s. “You don’t like Tony.”

“No,” and _this_ Sam could admit to. Gladly and unreservedly. “And the feeling is mutual, I’m sure. But there’s this- you are anti, and he’s pro SHRA.”

“He lost.”

“And I’m glad for that, but whatever this is with Tony is affecting your focus on the field. We’re in the post _Civil War_ era-”

“Don’t,” Steve rolled his eyes. “That’s sensationalist.”  
“Of course it is. Verbal shorthand for middle America. Brutal, yet effective. Deal with it, Steve. You’re working on the repeal to get to the Senate soon enough. When that topic comes to light, they’re gonna want to hear from Tony Stark.”

“Of course,” Steve nodded, coming up with one and one and getting the correct answer. “That’s understandable.”

“I’m glad we agree. Speak to him, Steve, get him on side. I actually like Tony Stark _better_ than the SHRA.”

oOo

Led Zepplin blasted over the speakers connected to Tony’s computer, as Tony was seated at the kitchen table, goggles over his eyes as he used a soldering iron, against a medley of copper wire. He was in short sleeves, his forearms dusted with dark hair, his pyjama bottoms not the inky silk he used to own, but brightly plaid ones, with teals and blue overlapping lines. Tony hummed to himself, and Steve caught snatches of the song as he let himself in. Tony had a decent voice - not Broadway material, but it wasn’t a hardship to hear him try to mimic the growl of the guitar, before the words faded back in.

As soon Tony raised his head and saw that Steve was home, he reached over and turned down the sound to almost nothingness.

“You’re home early,” Tony observed, not moving from his space at the table. “If I knew you were coming I’d have bake you a cake. Nah, I wouldn’t,” he waved that thought away, “but I’d have cleared the table.”

Steve took in the materials on the table - his eye brows raised a fraction when he saw the workings of an old fashioned model assembly of an airplane.

“It’s all right,” he said, moving over to the counter, realising that Tony’d had done freshly brewed coffee. Steve poured himself a cup of coffee, and saw the egg timer beside the hob. Not a ball or a piece of stick, but it would have to do. He turned it to five minutes, hoping that they’d be enough.

“What’s this, then, Steve?”

“We need to talk,” Steve sat in the chair, coffee mug warming his fingers and palms as he held it between his thighs. “We need to come to some common ground, Tony, we can’t keep -doing this. We have to come to a common ground, if nothing else.”

Tony didn’t say a word, just put aside the heating element on a pad, and leaned back in his chair, his eyes fastened on Steve.

It came to this, Steve noted, the strained silence, or if they had to speak, the words were laconic, or if they were fluent, vicious.

“Was it worth it?” Steve asked at last, not expecting an answer.

The seconds ticked away, and Tony only stared at him through half lidded lashes, his features edging into shadow as the sunlight slipped from the windows. “It has to be.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s not the answer you want to hear, Steve, but it is an answer.”

“After all that, Richards deserted you, took away your extremis - don’t you feel anything?”

“At the end of the day, Reed did what he had to do.” Tony briefly bit his lips together, his lashes lowered, and Steve couldn’t see the expression in his eyes.

The egg timer shrilled the end of the time, and Steve turned away.

***

“I could have _killed_ you,” the words tore themselves from Steve’s throat one Friday evening, as soon as the door clicked open.

Tony didn’t say anything, just shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the hook, before stepping into the flat. Friday evening, when the sun dipped low in the sky, washing its surroundings in brass. Steve stood at the window, clad in sweat bottoms, and a faded, marled grey sweatshirt, his back towards Tony, his head in profile, shadows of the late summer sun throwing Steve’s face into sharp relief. His eyes were bright, almost blazing, and Tony knew, it wasn’t a trick of the sun.

“You didn’t,” Tony replied, at last, shoving his hands in the pockets of his last good suit. “There’s that.”

“You could have told me what was going on.”

“You’d have acted the way you did, so that’s why I didn’t. You won, Steve, against a jumped up punk like me,” the words tore themselves from Tony, hot and bitter. “Isn’t that enough?”

 

 **Part Three**

[   
](http://s10.photobucket.com/albums/a116/jazzypom/?action=view&current=4th.jpg)

[   
](http://s10.photobucket.com/albums/a116/jazzypom/?action=view&current=5th.jpg)

Tony folded the _New York Times_ and placed it to one side. After their terse exchange a couple of weeks ago, he was trying to keep the place _tidier_ \- his bits in the room, and nothing out of the room save an odd note book and pencil. At the table where he was seated now, he only had the paper on the desk, and a cup of coffee. The rest sat in the coffee pot, the percolator gurgling to itself. There was the sound of the toilet being flushed, the brief whistle of the tap as the water ran for an extended period of time, before the noise became deeper, as if a basin were being filled. Ah, that was Steve, doing his morning ablutions before facing the day.

Restless, Tony opened _The New York Times_ again, and reread the article. When Steve came into the kitchen, he waved the paper at him.

“Congratulations, your bill is going to the New York Senate, next stop- the vote. You have the Governor onside, too?”

Steve did not flush, not as much as sat down in the chair opposite Tony. “He’s been supportive, all I want is a debate on the floor.”

Tony couldn’t help himself, as he quoted, “ _This nation was founded on one principle above all else: the requirement that we stand up for what we believe, no matter the odds or the consequences. When the mob and the press and the whole world tell you to move, your job is to plant yourself like a tree beside the river of truth, and tell the whole world - "No, **you** move."_

“You heard about that.”

“It was your St. Crispin speech,” Tony shrugged his shoulders, suddenly wishing for long sleeves, because the air was chilly. But his budget stopped at three undershirts and a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms from the Gap.

“I still believe it. But I also believe that good men come around, and that common sense will prevail.”

“The SHRA wasn’t stupid,” Tony took a sip from his coffee, house rules be damned. “It might have been heavy handed-”

“ _Might_ have been?” Steve interrupted, each word the clang of sword against shield, the song of battle. “Tony, you cloned Thor! You killed Ben Foster. You created the super hero prisons because-”

“You think I wanted to?”

“You imprisoned _me_ , Tony! You made our friends fugitives from the law. You started a war with Atlantis. No one held a gun to your head. If they did, that would have been one thing, but you were the one front and centre rounding our kind up like...animals. You tell yourself you did this for _us_ \- for superheroes who protect the peace, but you didn’t, Tony. You and Reed, you calculated everything and it worked for you, except the body count. But that was an equation that that never mattered to you anyway.”

“You think,” Tony had to swallow past the bile churning in his stomach from nerves, caffeine, and the disgust that pumped off from Steve in waves. “You think that I took joy in going to war against you? The lives that were lost? Happy, Bill...God, Steve,” it took all the strength that Tony had to prevent his voice from breaking. “ I’m _sorry_ , the war over the SHRA wasn’t about _you_. It was about advocating accountability among our own kind. Not every superhero gets read the riot act that with _great power comes great responsibility_. Not everyone is you, Steve, nor can be you.-”

“No,” Steve cut in. “I was only the person in your way, and you didn’t care. One of us - or both of us could have been _killed_ , Tony but you didn’t care, as long as you had your prisons and money. Sometimes, I think it’s a good thing you lost both.”

“Son of a-” Tony stopped, stunned by the ferocity of Steve’s sentiment and viewpoint. “Remember, Steve? Rem- I had the extremis and I. “ Tony splayed his fingers against his chest, emotion making his voice choke, scrambled his faculties he was sure, because instead of a well formed argument, he was reduced to choked, glottal bits of information. “I was- _killing_ people. I was a -a _weapon_ Steve. Nothing more... more than a gun. Those deaths in Connecticut? Goddamn it, Steve, that could have been _me_!”

“Tony-”

“No!” Tony made a slashing motion with his hand. “You think, I wanted to be a party to the SHRA?”

“Soon you’ll be telling me that you only joined forces with the government, so you could stop it.”

“We had to be in front before we got crushed underfoot. How many Miriam Sharpes do you want to see out there?”

“Of course, it’s always a woman with you. You _used_ Miriam Sharpe for your own ends, Tony-”

“My ends?” Tony took a step back. “You think I just.. _cruised_ around looking for a causality and thought. Hey, SHRA.” Absently, Tony rubbed the heel of his palm against his heart, cursing at the irony - he now had a heart and it was in danger of being shattered. After a few shaky breaths, Tony continued, saying his words carefully so that his voice didn’t have a tell tale tremor at its edge. “Sharpe was a _parent_ , a causality of our actions, Steve. She mightn’t have been the best representative, but she had a point.”

“Was it worth it?” Steve asked, the bastard driving it home, each phrase of accusation a keen blade to Tony’s heart. “Was this all worth it in the end, Tony? You _compromised_.”

“My stance,” Tony pushed on, voice raw, “is no less valid than yours, Steve. Just because I lost, doesn’t mean that I’m wrong. We didn’t have to be on opposite sides.”

“You still don’t understand, do you?” Steve shook his head, “just because you chose the lesser of the two evils doesn’t make it any less evil. There was no moral _grey_ in this matter.”

Tony scrubbed his hands over his face. Even though he hadn’t put on his armour in weeks he felt battle weary, body shaky and bones bruised. “I remember someone telling me that I wasn’t nearly as sure as I was going to need to see this through. You think I wanted to do half the things I did?”

“You did them,” Steve shook his head, “and that’s enough.”

“I hope you remember that, when you put those children in the line of fire. Liberty over responsibility.”

“You mean, security, Tony.“

“You can give nods to Benjamin Franklyn all you want, Steve. But a man wrapped up in himself is a small bundle, and you’ve been doing a lot of that.”

“It’s not easy, winning,” Steve said after a while, eyes somber. “It demands responsibility, not just for the side the winner takes, but not to demean the user as well. It’s ‘malice toward none’, a way of taking the shattered remains of a house fighting against itself, building it up again, making it stand, and hoping that this time, it’s on solid rock. I do want to get the law repealed, and it will, but that’s not enough, I want to understand why you took the stance you did. I try, God, Tony- I _try_ but it comes around to me wondering if I knew you at all.”

“We should have stuck to the house rule - no SHRA,” Tony’s voice sounded as brittle as he felt. “If you obviously feel this way, why am I here?”

“You didn’t turn me away all those years ago. Also, the last time you were homeless, you didn’t do so well.”

 _Crawled in the bottom of a bottle and didn’t come out for a long time. Twice_.

Tony stopped, cleared his throat and tried again. He got up on shaky legs- Christ, his whole body was shaking - either due to anger or other emotions that Tony dared not name- and made a decision.

Steve must have seen the intent there, because he raised a hand as if to stop Tony, and said his name.

“Tony.”

“No. Let’s just call it even, Steve. We’re square.” Tony waved Steve’s comments away. “Disgust, I can deal with, even anger. But I draw the line at pity.”

“Pity?” at this Steve stood up so quickly, his chair fell to its side with a clang. “You think I want you here because of pity?”

Whatever answer Tony might have given would have been moot, because the phone rang; that shrill, full bodied, old fashioned ring tone. The only one Steve claimed would rouse him out of deep REM.

“You might want to get that,” Tony motioned with his chin. “If your SHRA is going to the Senate next week, you’re going to be getting a lot of calls and emails. It’s like public stock shares, in a way.”

“Tony-”

The phone stopped, the answering machine clicked in, only for, “Captain America, this is Kat Farrell from _The Daily Bugle_ -”

“I need to get this.”

“I know.”

“Just wait until I’ve finished this call.”

“Don’t worry, Dad,” Tony’s smile felt as if it were smeared on, but he managed. “I’ll make sure I’ve cleaned up.”

If nothing else Tony took away from his time being homeless and drunk, he knew how to disappear. By the time Steve had finished his interview, and said his good byes, Tony had cleared his room of everything, and true to his word, he left the room as tidy as he found it.

Steve sat on the edge of the bed, idly smoothing the wrinkle from the sheets - Tony had never learnt the art of smoothing sheets until they were flat. As he brushed his hands across the sheets, his fingers touched on something small, metallic and cold. His house key.

[   
](http://s10.photobucket.com/albums/a116/jazzypom/?action=view&current=6th.jpg)

[   
](http://s10.photobucket.com/albums/a116/jazzypom/?action=view&current=7th.jpg)

oOo

“You did good, Steve,” Sam said, holding up a pilsner glass in salute. They were in The Blarney, one of those small bars in mid-town that inexplicably escaped gentrification. The bar an impression of dim light and cheers from the little knot of meta humans in their ‘soft’ clothes, turning out for celebration. Luke raising his glass of beer, Jessica a glass of orange juice. Other faces bloomed in and out of his vision as he saw them, Matt Murdock, Peter Parker- even Misty Knight, if he guessed correctly. It was good to be out and about again, without disguises and legends, just him and his friends raising a glass to hard fought progress.

“Captain America-” a voice interrupted him from his reverie, it belonged to an attractive college co-ed, with her friend and today’s newspaper in tow. Across her chest, the shirt had the caption: Captain America was right. “Can we have an autograph for my little brother?”

“Of course, and this is for...”

“Sally,” she said, “his name is Sally.”

As Steve did that, returning the pen and paper to the women, his eyes snagged on a shadow. The height, that profile, it could only be - he hastily made his excuses (not that he needed to, the spirits in the bar were high), and moved over to the shadow seated at the table near the window, its surface bare.

“Captain.”

“Dr Strange, “ Steve greeted, minding his manners, although it wasn’t the person he’d hoped to see. “It’s been a minute.”

“Congratulations are in order, I’ve been made to understand.” Stephen Strange gave a courtly tilt of his head. Instead of his usual get up, he was wearing soft clothing. Three piece suit, charcoal grey, the only shot of colour a jaunty scarlet triangle winking at him from its perch in his jacket.

“A lot of things have changed, since-”

“I took my leave, yes. Went away to fast, to pray for sanity, to push the sequence of fates to fall on the side of a particular order. I sense your disdain for my motives, Steve.”

“Not motives, more along the lines of your inaction. You could have stopped it before it became what it was.”

“A war,” Stephen let out a sigh that might have been called _delicate_ in certain circles, “sparked from the empty atoms of two opposing opinions that got out of hand. As much as I’m loath to break a confidence, Tony asked me to take his side.”

“And?”

“I said no. If you came and asked me to take your side, I would have refused you as well. It had to play out,” Stephen said, his fingers lightly tapping a rhythm on the work smoothed surface of the wooden table between them. “Insofar as there only had to be one victor, this was the best way.”

Steve frowned at this. Dr Strange always coached his answers in riddle, hedged bets and shades of equivocation.

“The best way?” It was all Steve could do to keep the faint bite from his voice. “With Tony on the edge of bankruptcy-”

“He’ll recoup his losses and come back, he always does.”

“The Avengers not trusting each other because of what’s gone before, even with the repeal, and _us_. Our friendship-”

“That can be worked upon.”

“No,” Steve sighed, his good mood distant as the cheers and murmurs of people at the bar. “Tony and I- we’ve had knock down, dragged out fights, and we’ve always been able to come back- but not this time. It’s been -” Steve stopped himself from sighing, but he couldn’t keep the strain from his voice when he said, “six weeks.”

“You will just have to trust me on this one, Captain Rogers,” Stephen smiled, but his eyes were a frigid, forbidden grey, at odds with his pleasant countenance. “There are other offshoots of time lines, certain actions and results are ineffable. Unthinkable, unforgivable. At least in this one, there’s the chance that you two will reconnect, if not through the former bonds of friendship, it will be through the shared code of responsibility.”

“What brings you here, Stephen?”

“You speak about inactivity, Captain, about your disdain for an path not taken, a good not followed through. I’m here to urge you to act. To take the first step, if you can.”

“You came this far, to say that?”

“Let’s just say... in my duties, my inaction may have cost me dear,” Stephen rubbed at his left temple with the fore and middle fingers of his left hand. “And perhaps, whatever Tony’s failings- he didn’t shirk. I am not asking you to forgive, I cannot. But I am asking you to consider your history, your bond.”

“And if I can’t?” The question tumbled from his lips, unbidden. “If I think this infraction was just a step too far? That all I have is anger, because if I try to think of any other way towards Tony I- I feel empty. How can I get past that? But I … _want_ to.”

“For what it’s worth,” a wry smile twisted Stephen’s lips, as a fedora appeared in his hand from nowhere as he got to his feet. “I’m glad your side won.”

He doffed his hat on his head, and bade his leave. Steve sat at the table for a long time.

oOo

Tony only buried his face deeper in his collar, and looked away from the headline screaming from the papers on the subway. He didn’t really need to know, just focused on the _clackity clack_ of the train’s wheels against the rails. As soon as he got above ground, Tony bundled himself into a taxi, his eyes burning he passed the building formerly known as Stark Tower, refusing to look the places he used to patronise- back in the heady days of unlimited credit, and easy money. Now, he was rebuilding from the ground up, with Pepper’s voice in his ear, sharp and crisp over his mobile phone.

“Tony, remember, if you want to apply for this patent- you know what? I’ll do it for you.”

“Pepper,” Tony’s voice caught, “I can’t even afford to pay you what you’re worth right now.”

“You could never afford to pay me what I was worth, even when you did.”

“True,” Tony laughed, and the tightness in his throat eased somewhat. “I do think this one will be it, though. Geo-spatial visualisation location-aware data. If I’m correct about the applications-”

“I’ll never be lost in city again,” Pepper’s voice was tart, and he heard the sizzle of egg cracked into hot oil.

“Have you,” Tony wet his lips and cleared his throat. “Did you see the headlines this morning?”

“Of course,” Pepper said, paused, and sighed. “Oh, Tony. Are you okay?”

“Why do you still talk to me? I miss _Happy_ Pepper, and you must miss him more than I do, and yet...” he stopped, feeling his throat close with the ache of loss. “Is Rhodey by you right now?”

“He’s bringing dinner later. I’ll tell him to pick up an extra pizza, and you just come on over too, okay? If you can’t swing the extra fare, we’ll come over to yours, just say the word.”

“Okay. Hey, pal, stop here,” Tony said, just as the building came into view. “I gotta go, Pep.”

Tony clicked off, paid his money and bundled out of the taxi before he lost his nerve, and stood before the gates of where it all began, and ended, in a way.

Avengers mansion.

Where he and Steve fought that fateful night, over two year ago, and Tony raised his hand towards Steve, only just making out the outline of Steve’s form through his tears. _Tell me how to stop this_ , he’d said, but Steve couldn’t, the die had already been cast.

Fingers trembling, Tony pressed the code, stepping through the gates with a sort of benumbed wonder, the ruin of the mansion from Jack’s explosion confronting him anew. The facade of the house blown off, the door of English oak splintered into toothpicks. Tony picked his way through the rubble, emotions hitting him at odd and uncomfortable angles as he saw the destruction, of pictures tumbled from their places on their walls, and crashed into the ground. He dropped to his knees, the hem of his coat brushing the floor, as his fingers briefly splayed against the glass frame of a smiling Wanda, scowling Pietro, Clint, Cap, Carol. They were so _young_. The rugs- old, expensive, turn of the century - now rags across scorched hardwood floor.

 _SHRA repealed_ , the headline now flashed before his eyes, and Tony stepped out, towards the formal gardens, where the statues and headrest of the former Avengers were. Those who died in battle - and others who were gone, but their memories still cherished.

Only to stop short when he saw a familiar figure there, the shock of blond hair, glinting in the sun like newly spun thatch.

“When I came here for the first time,” Steve’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “I didn’t plan to stay, I knew I couldn’t go back ‘home’, and I was right- and wrong.” Steve turned around, faced him. “This was home. I didn’t realise it until everything happened, with Wanda, and Jack and- when we fought.”

“Steve,” Tony stuck his hands in his coat. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be pressing the flesh for the repeal of the law? I hear the President will be signing it next week, congratulations.”

Steve shook his head, and Tony drank him in. It had been almost three months since the last time they spoke, and Steve hadn’t changed. Still tall, all American build. Still the golden boy who won the argument, and bent the media narrative to his will.

“A part of winning any war is to reflect on who we’ve lost. It’s the decent thing, the only thing.”

“And when we’ve lost?” Tony said, feeling his cheeks and nose burn, and he told himself because it was cold. That sort of bracing chill where it was too cold to snow, but the bright fall colours of reds and colds against the crisp blue of sky gave the day a robust cheer.

“You’re not the only one who lost, Tony.”

“No,” Tony agreed, his eyes dropping to the stylised A that made up Scott Lang’s headstone.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Steve changed the subject, as he stalked over the rubble and rough grass that made up the garden, moving close to Tony. “How have you been?”

“Not at the bottom of a bottle. Sorry, that wasn’t funny,” Tony cut himself off, because Steve was trying to make nice and edging closer. “I’ve been living in Brooklyn, drumming up investments by day and designing new technologies by night. Oh, and discovering the greatness that is Goodwill.”

“Hmm, hmm,” Steve nodded, “that coat isn’t your usual style. You tend to go for expensive.”

“Expensive is expensive,” Tony laughed, but there was no amusement in it. The pea coat he had on was two seasons ago, and smelled faintly of mothballs. “ Pepper tells me that my style is innate, and it’s all in the attitude. I think,” Tony flashed a smile, “she might be lying, but I don’t care.”

“How is Pepper? I read the interview with herself and Rhodes, they’ve been speaking on your behalf.”

“Rhodey came back, for her. He makes her laugh. He’s gentle with her, and they both loved Happy.”

So strange, that after three months of not seeing each other, of _everything_ that flowed between them in those months - how _unchanged_ Tony looked. The lines around his eyes and mouth were not so deep, so much more relaxed. The scuff that marred his van dyke, gone. Tony had found his vanity again, that was nice to see. His eyes though- Tony might have had the smile of a Cheshire cat, but his eyes were still sad.

“That’s good, right?”

“It works for them,” Tony said, his smile warmer, the shadows dimming a little. “I think they’ve always understood each other, and roll their eyes in unison when it came to judging me. It’s the little things, you know? Rhodey and Pep are both solid, it might not last, but, they’re friends first, right?”

“Right.”

“Right,” Tony nodded. “Well, since you got here before me, first dibs, right? I’ll take my leave, happy SHRA repeal day. Or something. I’m sure Hallmark has a card for this day. Somewhere.”

Tony just turned on his heel and made to go. Steve raised his a hand, “Wait.”

“Steve?”

“I’m sorry about the things I said back at the apartment. I was out of line.”

“Seriously, Steve? You’re _not_ the first person to wish me ill.”

“Let me be the first person to take it back. Fighting you was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, Tony. I’m sorry that it came to that.”

“But you’re not sorry you won.”

“No,” that Steve could admit. “I won’t back down from what I think is right, and might not like what you say, but I’ll defend your right to say it.”

“How magnanimous of you. All of that, and your pity too. You can take all of that and-”

“I miss you,” Steve said simply, as he closed the distance between himself and Tony. It wasn’t fair, he knew, cutting off Tony’s tirade like that, as he was close enough to see the dark curve of lash, and the patterns of blue in his iris. Close enough for the world to fall away, to nothing but him and Tony in a green patch in the Avengers garden. Close enough to see the doubt, before Tony even moved his lips and if Tony said no- well, he’d soldier on. “It’s hard - because after everything that’s gone on between us, I still _do_. I want us to talk, I don’t know if I’d ever understand what went on between us, but I want to _try_. We were friends before all of this, Tony. We can still be again.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony dipped his head, breaking Steve’s gaze for an instant. Steve didn’t step back, even though for a moment he couldn’t breathe. Not that he could blame Tony, because they had a lot of death and distance between them, and their last exchange had been horrible. He didn’t move, because the least he could do was steel himself and listen for Tony to list the reasons why.

“It would be a long, hard road back to where we were,” Tony lifted his gaze to Steve. “All the things I’ve done, all the things I’ve said. I’m _not_ sorry about the position I took, because the discussion had to be had- but I’m sorry about the way I went about it.”

“We should have gone about it better, I could have - _listened_ more. They say all is fair in love and war-but Goddamn it, Tony, it doesn’t feel that way.”

Tony laughed, the edges of it just this side of mournful. “I’m sorry. All I can do is try and show you how sorry I am, and even then- I can’t change the past, or the fact that at times, that’s all you’d be able to look at me and see. When I’m with you, I’m better, I’m _more_. It will always be a no brainer for me, even after everything. If it’s not too late to try again, Steve, here I am.”

Too overcome to say anything more, Steve placed his hand on Tony’s shoulder, the world fading away into the distance. In the gardens, even with everything up turned and scattered, the city seemed distant from here. Tony opened his arms, and Steve walked into them, and drew Tony to him, the mixture of camphor and warm notes of cedar making his eyes and nose tingle.

They would be okay.

Fin


End file.
